


Jingle-jingle

by WahlBuilder



Series: Scarves and Mittens [10]
Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Fluff, Gift Giving, Holidays, Other, Travel, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: While traveling to Morr's final destination, the Incubus and his companion find themselves into the world that doesn't look like the others they have visited.





	

Morr tightened his grip on the klaive. ‘They are looking right at me.’ He wanted to put his helm on, but for now he left it stay on his belt.

Something was wrong with this world—or more accurately and according to Motley, a memory of a world. Most of the objects—buildings, ground, wind, furniture—had felt solid in all other vision-worlds, but everything was bland, texture-less, neither cold nor hot. Like a simulation, a big room filled with basic blocks and then holograms projected onto them.

This one was different. Morr and Motley were walking down a snowed street, and from time to time Morr’s feet would sink into the snow, or the falling snowflakes would brush his face only to roll down his cheeks a moment after.

One second the wind would be nothing but movement of air, a memory of wind,—the next it would be humid and cold and carrying scents that Morr had never felt before. Something sweet and iron-like, and another scent twined with the sweet one, heady and warming Morr from the inside, engaging his senses.

 _Sweet like Arhra’s kiss_. Morr had always thought this saying referred to the sweetness of blood or the wrenching sweetness of rot, but now, closing his eyes and trying to catch the mix of heady sweetness and iron, now he knew it was this.

His skin prickled, and he opened his eyes again—only to have one of the inhabitants of this memory-world stare directly at him. Then the man blinked and shook his head, and smiled at the other man he was holding hands with.

They were mon-keigh, the inhabitants of this world, and unlike in other visions that were inhabited by mere shadows, wisps, half-transparent visions, these people looked solid enough. _Were_ solid enough that from time to time, when the scents enveloped Morr, when his feet slipped on the cold ground, he would brush his shoulders against the shoulders of the crowd.

‘Something’s wrong, Motley,’ he growled. The people didn’t seem to be aware of their presence among them, not entirely, but this fading in and out of reality was getting on Morr’s nerves.

Soft jingling announced return of his companion, and then Motley floated to him on swift, light feet. The Harlequin didn’t look that much out of place here, with all these people wearing carnival costumes: this one had a crown on top of her head, that small one had dragon wings behind their back, the couple wore matching purple dresses, impractical for such a weather.

‘Something is _strange_ , my friend,’ sing-songed the Harlequin. ‘I am unable to locate another gate now. We should keep moving.’ Motley flowed in the crowd. After a few steps the Harlequin waved to the child that stared directly at the clown.

Morr lowered the klaive onto the cobblestones and dug his heels into the snow. The metal vibrated under his hands. ‘Why is it more real than before?’

Motley didn’t stop immediately, but, moving a few steps further, the Harlequin dangled one leg in the air then whirled around, facing Morr. The bells jingled softly. Motley spread arms wide. ‘Don’t you see, my dear Incubus? They are celebrating!’

Morr huffed. Another whiff of the sweet scent teased his nostrils. ‘That I already guessed.’ He looked pointedly at the costumed people, at their laughing faces, at the baskets with foodstuff, brightly coloured and tied with ribbons.

Motley bent forward, and below the half-mask, a smile spread, drawing Morr’s attention to the red lips for one distracting moment. ‘And as everyone—even you, my sweet murderous friend—knows, that the Warp is overly sensitive to emotions. Celebrations, wars, triumphs, mass murders—all these lovely things imprint on the Warp terribly. Like a child looking up at their older sibling, the Warp is easily impressionable by the material world. This particular celebration has impressed it so much, it repeats it over and over again. And we just happened to stumble into such a place-not-a-place.’

Morr shook his head at the ridiculous metaphors of the Harlequin. ‘It might explain why everything is so defined, but it does not explain why we bleed through into this memory.’

Motley’s smile stayed, but it became painted, painful. The Harlequin sagged, shrivelled somehow. ‘Our journey is leaving an impression, too, my love.’

Morr’s muscles tensed. Then he hefted the klaive on his back, a couple of his steps carried him over to the Harlequin. Morr took his right gauntlet off and cupped Motley’s cheek, tilted his face.

Motley’s eyes were dark pools of hurt and regret. Morr bent down and kissed those red lips.

Maybe this was what Arhra’s kiss tasted like, the oily taste of the make-up, the heavy sweetness of their previous kisses, the bitterness of what lay before them.

The kiss continued, and the snow was falling on them, and celebrating people were moving right through them as if it were the Incubus and the Harlequin who had been ghosts, and not the people of this memory of a world.

‘I wish everything had been different,’ Motley whispered when Morr broke the kiss. The Harlequin was shivering, with eyes closed, mouth a bow of sadness.

‘If everything had been different, we wouldn’t have met,’ Morr replied.

‘Maybe it would have been better like that.’

Motley swallowed, then looked at Morr. Then the Harlequin’s eyes widened behind the mask. ‘Oh! I found something good! But I need your hands, so, come on, remove the other gauntlet.’

Morr was reluctant to follow such an order, but followed it nonetheless. They were absolutely alone in this world. He unclasped the left one and tugged it off, and locked both of the gauntlets on his belt.

Motley rummaged through the many belt pouches, then the Harlequin’s face lit up with triumph, and something soft was thrust into Morr’s hands. ‘Put them on!’

Morr turned the things over. They appeared to be gauntlets of sorts, but with only one compartment for fingers and a separate for the thumb. And clearly they were not supposed to be used in combat, for they were soft and thick and... flashy. Red with green trimming at the wrist and a pair of jingle bells dangling from a sewn-on white ribbon.

The bells sounded like tiny crystal droplets singing in the breeze.

Morr tugged one of the things on and startled as his fingers were buried in some soft fur. It was very pleasant. ‘What are these things?’

‘Mittens! Have you never— Wait, really? You’ve never heard of mittens? Never seen mittens?’ Motley was all slack-jawed disbelief.

Morr shook his head once, then put the other mitten on, and flexed his fingers. ‘Never. And although I think they are rather useless in combat, I like their softness. Thank you, Motley.’

The Harlequin wrapped his arms around him abruptly—and the elegant face crumpled. ‘Ow. Ow. Spiky armour. Owie-ow.’ But the Harlequin held on, and Morr put a hand on Motley’s back in turn.

Motley was still trembling, quiet and small, and after a heartbeat of hesitation, Morr embraced his companion fully.

The snow was falling.


End file.
